


Night In

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Control, Control Kink, Dehumanization, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Obedience, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Watersports, Winter Soldier does not understand sex, mild infantilization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Alexander Pierce borrows the Winter Soldier and takes him home for the night, just to play.According to the word counting site I used, this smut is written at a 12th grade reading level. Enjoy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely in the same continuity as [Puppet Show.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7454566)
> 
> Heed the warnings!

 

Once he was clean but before he was wiped, Pierce makes an executive decision and, the moment he has the opportunity, beckons the soldier to follow him. The soldier does so, blank and obedient as ever, shambling along behind Pierce like a dog he’d just shouted at. He’s not on guard duty, just now, so he won’t even look up. Not unless Pierce tells him to.

When they get to the parking garage—and thank god it’s so late, or Pierce would never have made it so far unaccosted with the soldier in tow—Pierce redirects the soldier towards the car with a firm hand at the base of his neck, steering him, and the asset keeps his eyes down, his face hidden behind that filthy hair, and allows himself to be shepherded to Pierce’s sleek silver Maserati. Pierce cups the back of the soldier’s skull as he pushes him into the car, like he was a cop and the solider was being arrested. 

When Pierce has walked around and gotten into the car himself, he finds the solider sitting where he was deposited, face still hidden by his hair. Pierce reaches around him to buckle his seatbelt, enjoying the sense of ownership, of the solider’s powerlessness.

Which. Come to think of it, is something he should investigate. 

“Look up,” he says, and the soldier does, first out the windshield and then, squinting momentarily, at Pierce, who he regards dully with those lightless eyes, his mouth just the slightest bit open, revealing only a sliver of his teeth.

Pierce casts around and picks up a large, nearly full water bottle, several days old, warm and probably leaching its plastic into the water itself, and he thrusts it towards the soldier. “Drink this,” he says, and the solider guilelessly raises his hands to take the bottle, open it, and drain it, eyes still fixed hazily on Pierce.

It’s exhilarating, watching the soldier suckle the bottle without any sense of shame, without any sense of what was happening, just doing it because he was told. 

“That’s right,” says Pierce, “eyes on me.” 

The soldier’s gaze stays on Pierce’s face, his neck twisting to counteract the odd angle he’d landed in the car in, as Pierce pulls out of the garage and drives home, grateful for the dark and his tinted windows. When the solider finishes the water bottle, he keeps it held up against his mouth, whether out of fidelity to orders or exhaustion Pierce doesn’t know.

Pierce, enjoying the game of it, says, “Do you know what an erection is?” 

He has no idea what he’s expecting. He’s never heard the soldier speak outside of missions and their reports, even on those occasions when things had gotten, for lack of a better word, extracurricular. Even when he was first introduced to the soldier, and to show his obedience his previous handler had given him a gun and instructed him to put it to his temple and pull the trigger. The soldier had done it unflinchingly, and while Pierce had assumed that was clever showmanship—surely the soldier knew there were no bullets in the gun—he shortly thereafter stoically and unprotestingly obeyed an order to punch himself, hard and with his metal fist, in the groin. There was no telegraphing or faking that. 

Pierce had still believed it to be a trick, so the first time he’d had the soldier to himself, he’d peppered him with orders to watch him obey. _On your knees. Slap yourself in the face. Stick out your tongue. Lie down face down on the floor. Roll over. Stay still_. He’s stepped on the soldier’s fingers then, his chest, his stomach, his neck. He’d delivered a swift and merciless kick to the soldier’s balls. None of it produced any resistance from the solider, though by the end he was panting faintly, his mouth hanging open and his face pink and shining from the pain. 

Pierce himself, thirty-seven and flushed with the sheer power coursing through him, had ignored the slight tightening in his pants and had instead told the soldier firmly, “Now you know who owns you.” The soldier had stared and, after a moment, nodded slightly.

Now, the precious asset doesn’t seem to understand Pierce’s question. He repeats in his sluggish stupid no-thinking-allowed way, “Erection?” Pierce glances at him, sees him swallow. “ _Erektsiya_ , _kogda chelovek_ —”

“Ah, ah. English, silly boy.” Pierce loves to condescend to the asset. 

The soldier swallows again, frowns as if he is trying to access long ago buried information, information he picked up in a biology class, nothing first hand. Never mind Pierce has seen the asset’s erection, teased it from him, laughed when the soldier couldn’t seem to follow what was happening to him. “When a man has—has—”

Pierce cut him off, laughing, avuncular. “Clearly we need to go back further, stupid little boy,” he sing-songs, turning onto Canal Road. “Where do babies come from?”

The soldier blinks, still holding the empty plastic water bottle a little in front of his face, poised dumbly. “Babies?”

Pierce loves when he’s like this.

“Do you know? Did they take that out of your head?” Pierce clucks his tongue sympathetically. “It’s hard to remember, isn’t it? Such a stupid little boy. Good to take away things you don’t need. You don’t need that right now. Do you know what you need to remember right now, sweetie?”

The asset frowns. “Mission?”

Pierce smiles. “Close.” He turns, at a stoplight, to look at the soldier, and takes his chin in his hands and looks at him hard. “Who do you belong to?”

The asset blinks hard. The wattle bottle makes a crunching sound, as if the soldier is squeezing it. “You,” he says, eventually, and Pierce releases the asset’s chin, smiling, feeling generous.

“Good boy.” He starts the car again. “Now touch yourself.” 

He loves to give this command, though the solider never understands it. He knows without looking that the soldier’s free hand is roving nervously over his chest, his legs, trying to work out what his director wants.

He reaches over, still without looking, and presses the heel of his hand hard on the soldier’s groin, running it down roughly over the soldier’s genitals through his pants, enjoying the way he can hear the soldier’s quickened breath. “Like that, stupid boy. I won’t show you again.” 

He wrenches his hand back and puts it back on the wheel, feigning disgust, though the soldier’s stupid confusion was delicious every time. From the corner of his eye he watches the soldier hastily copy the motion, spasmodically crushing his hand over his genitals though his pants. Pierce has no idea if it feels any good at all, though experience has taught him the touch-starved little soldier boy gets hard pitifully fast. 

By the time they pulled into Pierce’s driveway, the asset is making breathy little noises of confusion and arousal, and Pierce gets out of the car, walks around, opens the passenger door, and unbuckles the soldier’s seatbelt for him. The soldier, once disentangled, keeps right on kneading pathetically at his crotch. Pierce watches for a moment, then puts his arm around the soldier’s shoulders and guides him out of the car.

“You can stop now,” he says, as the asset keeps trying to touch himself, and he hopes he’s not imagining a little disappointment in the soldier’s breathing as he drops his arm and lets it hang, tucked pitifully under Pierce’s arm.

Once they’re inside, Pierce has the soldier stand by the counter, orders him to strip, and leaves to fetch some bourbon for himself, and the Everclear he’d picked up for the soldier. He suspects it’ll take a lot to make the soldier tipsy. If it doesn’t, he doesn’t really care.

When he comes back the soldier is standing next to a puddle of clothing, looking oddly small and narrow divested of his jacket and pants and boots, his half-hard cock dangling between his legs. Pierce is glad the discussion about castrating him back in ’94 had been tabled. 

He opens the Everclear and passes it to the soldier. “Drink this until I tell you to stop,” he says, well on his way to a semi just thinking about the next few hours, getting ahead of himself. The soldier is already doing what he’s told.

It can’t be pleasant; the soldier almost never eats or drinks in the first place, taking it all medically, mechanically, like a machine, and the alcohol has got to burn like it’s stripping his insides raw. Pierce palms at his dick idly, pouring the bourbon, as the soldier’s eyes water and spill over and his screwed up little face turns red.

After another long moment, after the asset had consumed enough of the liquor that if he were a normal person on an empty stomach he’d be fucked up enough to be in actual danger, Pierce tells him to stop. The soldier wrenches his mouth away from the bottle, spilling some liquor down himself, gasping and heaving. His face is coated in tears. He pants but holds still, the bottle poised to have more.

“You can give that to me, baby,” says Pierce, taking it, watching the soldier sway. The soldier does so silently, his eyes taking far too long to focus on Pierce, which Pierce enjoys. He’s confused, he doesn’t have a protocol. It’s delightful. 

He gestures down, almost forgetfully, at the asset’s wilding erection. “Fix that,” he says, and the solider, wobbly and confused, presses on his cock experimentally with the heel of his hand. “Like this, stupid baby,” says Pierce, unable to stop himself smiling, and he shows the soldier in the air, making a hollow fist and running it over air. The asset copies the motion stupidly, then, seeing Pierce’s eyes flick down to his groin, gets it at least, and grasps his dick.

Pierce knows the soldier has jerked off before, because he’s seen it happen, but every time it’s like the soldier is discovering it anew. He gasps, his mouth falling open and his eyelids fluttering, as his dry, jittery hand tugs almost experimentally at his cock, and he remembers himself just in time to look back at Pierce as he finds a rhythm, his mouth—wet and pink from chugging the Everclear—hanging open.

Pierce considers his options. He could have the soldier blow him, but that got old fast. He could ruin the soldier’s orgasm, but then the soldier wouldn’t look at him all shaky and pitiful and adoring, just wounded and sorry. He could do something he’d never done before, he thought, and fuck the soldier properly.

“You’re a good little doll, aren’t you?” he asks, and the soldier, whose brow his furrowed and whose mouth is working continuously to form some overwhelmed sound, frowns at him and nods distractedly. Pierce smiles. 

He grabs the soldier round the middle—and for all the soldier could break his neck without breaking a sweat, he doesn’t even react now, just lets himself be dragged, the hand that was on his cock dangling, his chest pink and warm from the alcohol. 

The best part of this, Pierce thinks, as he artfully arranges the soldier in his living room, the solider’s palms flat on the coffee table, his ass up, his cock bobbing, strained and wet, is that the soldier has no notion of what’s coming. He never telegraphs any of it. In a fight, he can guess what might come next, because he’s been allowed to keep that. This, though. This is just for Pierce, just for _owners_ , and the soldier couldn’t guess what’s about to happen, can’t name the strain in his groin, can’t identify the swirling sickness in his head as the effect of the drink. He’s so _stupid_ ; it’s so cute. 

It’s been a long time since Pierce has fucked anybody, much less in his own home, but he finds some Vaseline which he’s sure will do. When he returns, the soldier is where he left him, balanced, panting, strained, probably dizzy, his starved cock dripping minutely and otherwise abandoned. 

Pierce turns on the Redskins game, and it takes him almost no time to be ready—controlling the solider like a little toy gets him like nothing has, the soldier’s stupid gasps and pants, his utter obedience, his need for guidance, his arousal he didn’t understand—it made Pierce’s whole body hum. 

He gives the soldier, after some consideration, the courtesy of one finger’s preparation, more for his own comfort than the soldier’s, and for the improved view of the soldier’s face, screwing up in confusion and pain, as Pierce reaches inside, enjoying the body’s useless resistance and the ensuing warmth and softness, enjoying the way the soldier’s elbows begin to shake and the way his mouth falls open and stays that way as Pierce pads around, smiling, before saying, “How do you feel, sweetie? How’s this feel?”

The asset doesn’t appear to register the question, and Pierce withdraws and slaps the asset’s ass very hard, watches the asset absorb it, says, “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

“S-sorry,” the asset croaks, his default response to pain, and Pierce enjoys how much pain he could cause for a moment, gingerly cupping the asset’s balls and wondering if he remembers how much capacity punishment they offer.

“What for?” Pierce asks.

The asset trembles. “Sorry, sir,” he tries again, trying so hard to think, and Pierce smiles, because the poor little soldier shouldn’t be trying to do that. There’s more important things to do.

Pierce doesn’t know, he thinks, as he lines his cock up and sinks, slowly and measuredly and against an unaccommodating body and the soldier’s squirms and gasps and whines, if the soldier was ever fucked before this. He suspects probably, not least because of the fact that he’s got god-given-dick-sucking lips and these things tend to follow, but it doesn’t matter, because right now, the asset is a virgin but twice as pure, twice as unprepared, twice as squirmy and shocked and all his and pliant, as Pierce began to move, slowly, relishing it. The soldier beneath him is making noises like an animal stuck, whining and gasping, and Pierce slap him for shaking if he didn’t love the way he was taking the solider apart, owning him entirely. 

Pierce comes after several very long and pleasant minutes of his, listening to the soldier whimper helplessly—he doesn’t even whimper when he’s _shot_ —and gripping his hips hard and holding him firmly in place, a helpless little warm breathing doll.

With his cock still in the asset, his breath coming in pants, he says, in a moment of pure inspiration he thinks must have come on from the sheer orgasmic bliss, “Mission report.” The soldier makes a noise like someone who has just finished vomiting, and Pierce digs his fingernails into the skin at the soldier’s hips. “ _Mission report._ ” 

The soldier says “guh,” then groans out, “Dis— _disfunktsiya_ —”

“ _English_ , you ugly stupid thing,” says Pierce, pinching the soldier’s skin and smiling.

“Malfunction,” chokes the soldier.

“No, silly baby, this is just what real people do.” 

Pierce pulls out, lavishing the way the solider’s elbows and knees shake, and sits down on the couch. The soldier stays put. Pierce kicks his calf lightly. “Kneel,” he says, and the soldier does, and with a hand in his sweaty hair Pierce guys the soldier’s cheek to his own bare thigh. He leans him that way. 

He’s watching the game in silence for a long time, sleepy and happy, before he realizes the soldier is twitching a little. He glances down to see the soldier looking down at his long-soft cock, looking nervous. 

“No,” says Pierce, “that’s for real people.” 

The soldier stiffens, but his eyes don’t leave his dick, and his hands are twitching too, like he wants to grab it. Pierce huffs and tugs the soldier’s hair lightly. “ _Bad_ ,” he says, “you never touch that unless I say so. Say it back to me.” 

“Never touch it ’less you say so,” says the soldier dully, his eyes drifting up reluctantly to Pierce’s face. 

“Good boy,” says Pierce, and then he adds, “Lie down on the floor. Don’t move.” 

The soldier does as he’s told immediately, and Pierce enjoys the notion that he’s crushing his blossoming erection against the floor for awhile before returning to the game.

After quite a long time he realizes the soldier is rocking back and forth, minutely but notably, on the floor. He enjoys how pitiful it looks for a moment, then stands and, with a socked foot, kicks the soldier very hard in the ribs.

“You’re a greedy little animal,” he says, “a greedy little boy rutting into the _floor_. What do you want? Look at me.” He shoves the soldier onto his back with his foot. “What do you want, greedy little pig?”

The soldier doesn’t answer. He knows he doesn’t _want_. Wanting is for people. 

Pleased, Pierce extends his foot down to press lightly on the soldier’s cock. He shudders and whines.

“What do you need?”

“ _Piss_ ,” the soldier says, immediately, desperately, and Pierce surprises himself twice: first, when he laughs, and second, when his belly and groin get hot and excited at this, even if at his age he knows he’s done for the night. 

Pierce says, “Stand up.” The soldier does so, at once, and at Pierce’s direction he follows Pierce into the kitchen, where Pierce fills a tall glass of water and hands it to the soldier, leaving the sink running. “Drink that,” he says, and the soldier, mouth twisting and face desperate and pink, does. Pierce watches imperiously.

“Are you going to piss on the floor like an animal?” he asks. 

“No, sir,” says the solider, the empty glass held tight in front of his wet mouth, “not ’nymore.”

The soldier had never put forth such biographical information before, and Pierce raised his eyebrows. “Not anymore? When did you piss on the floor, dirty boy?”  

“ _Ya ne pomnyu_ ,” whined the soldier.

Pierce smiles again. He says, “I know, sweetie. It’s hard to remember, isn’t it, when you’re so stupid? When you need to—” He steps forward, crouches, and flicks the head of the solider’s cock, on the slit, to punctuate each word, “let—go—so—bad?”

The soldier is whining continuously now, choking out “ _prosti_ ” and “ _pozhaluysta_ ,” apologies and pleas, and Pierce is getting hard again. He stands up and, with abrupt and kinetic violence, seizes the soldier’s hair and drags him bodily to the sink, where the water is still running. He shoves the soldier’s face under the water, tilting his face up so the water falls into his mouth.

“Drink it,” says Pierce, simply, aware that the order is enough to force the soldier to obey, and helplessly, unquestioningly, he does, swallowing messily like he’s dying of thirst. 

After several minutes Pierce wrenches the asset back out from under the stream and shoves him hard down onto his knees, not wasting a word as he feeds his now unexpectedly very eager cock into the soldier’s slack mouth, ordering “suck” curtly and using the soldier’s hair to fuck his face impartially while the soldier sloppily tries to obey the order. 

Only after Pierce has come, on the soldier’s chest and the floor, so the soldier can clean it up, does he say, “Piss.”

The soldier doesn’t hesitate or seem to even mentally register the order before his body is obeying, and Pierce steps back so it’s only the soldier soaked in the mess. It’s only a little more to clean up. It’s better than watching him come, because the relief is familiar, complete—his mouth falls open and his eyes roll back and he lets out a strangled moan of relief, obscene and dirty, as he pisses all over himself.

When the soldier is done, cock still dripping little yellow droplets onto the puddle on the floor and a belated flush creeping over his face, Pierce says, “Now, wasn’t that nice of me?” 

The asset nods, and Pierce thinks, smiling as he pictures the solider lapping up the come and piss from the floor, that the poor little soldier might actually believe it.

 


End file.
